Deep within the sacred shadows of Angkorâs temple forest, the soft rustle of morning leaves whispered of life and ancient spirits. Among the twisted roots and moss-covered stones, I came across a sight that froze me in placeâa mother monkey perched on a low tree branch, her tiny baby clinging to her side, trembling, hungry, and desperate.
His name, whispered by local guides, was Niloâa baby monkey known to many photographers in the area. His mother, once nurturing and affectionate, now seemed distant. She turned her back as Nilo squealed and reached for her chestâwhere milk once flowed but now was denied.
For reasons unknown, she refused him.
It wasnât the first time, they told me. âSheâs stressed,â murmured a Khmer monk nearby. âMaybe danger. Maybe sickness. Sometimes, even mothers donât know what to do.â
But Nilo didnât understand. His cries echoed softly through the forestâraw, high-pitched, and aching. I watched as he crawled slowly around her, wrapping his arms around her waist, nuzzling her belly. Her response was a sharp push. Not violentâbut enough to cause him to fall back onto the soft dirt.
He didnât stop. He got up. He tried again. Again she denied him.
The heartbreak wasnât just in the rejectionâit was in the way he looked at her. Wide, confused eyes. Tiny hands pressed in prayer-like fashion. It was as if he was begging: âMama⌠please⌠just a little.â
Around them, life carried on. Other mothers nursed, other babies played. But Niloâhis ribs gently showing through his fur, his head slightly too large for his small frameâwas fighting not just for milk, but for love.
I watched for over an hour.
Each time he approached, his cries grew weaker. His energy waned. He lay down at her feet for a while, staring up at the sky through the trees. I wondered if heâd given up. But just as my heart dropped, he reached again.
And something changed.
She didnât move.
Not immediately.
She looked down at himâlong, hard, like she was trying to remember who he was. Maybe it was instinct, or something deeper. Maybe she remembered the day he was born just steps away from the Preah Palilay ruinsâhis first squeal in the misty dawn.
Finally, she bent her head. Not to offer milk. But to groom him. Just lightly. As if to say: âI still see you.â
But stillâno milk.
And the forest grew quiet.
That night, I returned to my guesthouse and couldnât sleep. Niloâs face stayed with me. A baby that didnât know why he wasnât wantedâbut still clung to hope. I asked myself: How many of us feel that way in our livesâlonging for comfort, asking for love, but receiving silence in return?
The next morning, I returned.
And there he wasâstill alive, still clinging, still asking.
And that⌠was everything
